


A melody sweetly played in tune

by Kaz_Langston



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bad Poetry, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manhandling, Past Geralt / Eskel, Self-Esteem Issues, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24771208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: It’s just fucking. No kisses, no sweet nothings, no weakness. Just the scratching of an itch. Geralt can’t afford to think it could be anything else.It’s just fucking. No emotions, no softness, definitely no chance of Jaskier being on top - Geralt nearly bit his hand off at the thought. But it hurts, to know how Geralt thinks of those who bend over for other men, and it hurts almost as much to know that he won’t ever get to treat Geralt how the noble witcher deserves to be treated.It’s just fucking. Except it’s not.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 73
Kudos: 819





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set fairly early on after they first met.
> 
> Title bastardised from "A red, red rose" by Robert Burns.

_A village haunted, death runs wild_  
_A woman cursed, by night beguiled_  
_Violet spells for violent ends_  
_The witcher's silver sword descends_

They left town long before the sun began to set, Geralt eager to check the lay of the land, but the flat fields didn't pose as much of a challenge as he'd expected and they soon found themselves at a loose end, perched in a copse of trees a half mile or so from where the wraith would rise.

"Really, Geralt, I don't see why we couldn't have retired to the inn for a while, it's hardly as though we don't know where she'll be once the moon comes up. We could have been enjoying some of that beef again, I know the barmaid gave me an extra portion." He pouted a little, bottom lip heavy. "How long is all this going to take, anyway? She said she'd be working most of the evening if we got back before she left, but gods it's been an _age_ since that lad back in Dorian and I really feel I should be making the most of my newfound fame. Or there's always the brothel, I suppose, though it seems a shame to pay when such a lovely lady was offering to be so generous free of charge..."

Jaskier kept talking over the steady burr of Geralt's whetstone against the silver blade. It was sharp enough, he'd done it the day before, but who knows why witchers have the silly little habits they do when it comes to weaponry and such.

He was half way through extolling the stableboy's virtues and complaining about how very long it had been - _weeks, Geralt! Maybe a full month!_ \- when Geralt huffed out a frustrated breath and scowled at him across the clearing. "Come here."

Jaskier gave him a wary side eye. "Last time you said that it didn't go well for me."

"Jaskier."

The bard set down his lute with care and crept to Geralt's side, crouching down next to him as the witcher swept his whetstone over and over the blade. His legs were starting to ache, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, by the time Geralt ceased the hypnotic slide and looked up at him with exasperated eyes, hands laying still and heavy on those massive thighs.

"If I fuck you, will you shut up?"

Eyebrows betraying his surprise, Jaskier grinned. "Absolutely! I'll be the quietest, most well behaved-" He bit his tongue at the scowl on Geralt's face. "I'll shut up."

The witcher rose to his feet, more fluidly than Jaskier managed with his legs half numb from crouching, and tucked his sword nearly back in its sheath. Jaskier heroically managed to not make a comment.

They'd only planned to wait here for an hour or so before tackling the wraith and then heading back to the inn, so there was no bedroll, no warming campfire, just a couple of tree stumps and last autumn's leaf litter. There was a brief silence as Geralt cocked his head, clearly listening to the small sounds of dusk. Jaskier's heart lurched at the sight of his witcher in the gathering gloom, all white hair and golden eyes and silver studded armour, because of course he would never set out for a hunt without his armour and apparently wouldn't take it off for getting his end away.

"Lie down, then," Geralt eventually growled at him, and Jaskier blinked. Alright, straight to business.

He surveyed the floor, finding a patch where he could brush away the remaining leaves and take a cautious seat in the dirt, lounging back on his hands. At least it hadn't rained in a couple of days and his nice silk breeches weren't at risk.

It wasn't how he'd imagined it - he'd expected at least a bed roll the first time he bedded the witcher, not just the dirt floor, although certain fantasies had extolled the virtues of dark alleyways - but if that's how Geralt wants it he's hardly going to complain.

Geralt dropped down beside him, unfastening his own breeches with efficiency, sliding a hand inside and clearly stroking himself.

"Wait," Jaskier said, suddenly flustered, "Let me, let me-" He stretched out a hand, and Geralt intercepted it, dragging him closer and then pulling one leg over his own until Jaskier straddled him.

Kneeling above his witcher, Jaskier could see the flash of pale skin on red as Geralt lazily fisted his own prick. Pink cheeked, he fumbled for his own breeches, and the buttons parted under his fingers until he could ease his cock out, already swollen and firm. Geralt made a sound of approval beneath him and, emboldened, Jaskier stroked his own length, tipping his head back, showing off a little.

After a minute of near-silence, broken only by the filthy sounds of flesh on flesh, Jaskier looked down only to see Geralt's hand wrapped around a length that was far larger than it had any right to be. He paused in his own attentions, and Geralt all but laughed at whatever expression must be settled on his face. He's no slouch himself in that department, but the sheer size of the witcher's prick was just magnificent, a girth he'd not seen except in the filthiest of dreams and a fat head that spilled a little each time the scarred fingers slid around it.

"Can I-" He swallowed. "Can I touch you?"

"Or I can touch us both."

Jaskier bit back a whine and nodded.

Geralt shifted sideways, reaching to fumble in his bags and pull out a slim corked vial. Jaskier eyed it with trepidation. "That's not the, ah, the one you were brewing earlier? The one with the... viscera? And the eye watering smoke?

Geralt smiled. It wasn't very reassuring. "No."

"Oh, good. Because that smelled-"

"That would melt your dick off before you could even soften."

Oh." Jaskier swallowed hard. "Just to check, that is one hundred percent definitely not what you have there, right?"

The witcher quirked a lip, and shook his head. "Carrier oil. Grape seed."

"In that case, be my guest."

A dribble of the oil into Geralt's palm before he smeared it over his own cock, coating it with a sweep of his hand. He lifted an eyebrow at Jaskier, who hurriedly let go, letting his cock bob in thin air before Geralt gripped it, sliding firmly from root to tip to leave it glistening. Unable to stop the groan cracking from his throat at the feel of the roughly calloused hand against his skin, Jaskier closed his eyes in mortification, before opening them again at the feel of a hot, firm length against his own.

There, between his legs, Geralt's wide hand wrapped around both of them, a tight grip to squeeze both cocks together.

"Fuck," he said disbelievingly, and Geralt snorted even as he slid the hand down around them both. "Oh, fuck."

It was hot and slick and perfect and all thoughts of the dirt under his knees or the night's hunt vanished, and he bucked his hips into the firm grasp.

Geralt let him rut, keeping a steady pace despite Jaskier's enthusiasm, tugging on them both in silence as Jaskier whined and gasped and panted.

"I'm close, oh, oh, fuck, Geralt that's so _good_ , yes-" He couldn't stop the flood of words, but Geralt's free hand was at his waist, crumpling up his chemise and doublet, moving them out the way, and that little conscientious gesture tipped him over the edge, spilling across his own belly with a groan.

Geralt held him there as he slumped and panted and grinned breathlessly, before letting go of the bard's steadily softening prick and returning to his own, still hard and leaking, biting his lip in silence as Jaskier watched.

He came with a bitten off grunt, quiet in the back of his throat as he spilled into his hand, then wiped it away on a nearby patch of grass as Jaskier wrinkled his nose and slumped off to the other side.

Jaskier's chest was still heaving when Geralt got to his feet, his usual sinewy grace entirely unaffected by their activity. He watched, still a little dazed, as the witcher pulled on his gloves and picked up his silver sword.

Geralt shot him a frown across the clearing, visible now in the low moonrise. "Up, bard. Or are you staying here?"

He scrambled to his feet, fumbling at the ties to his breeches. "No cuddling and sweet nothings then?" he offered, mostly joking as his clumsy fingers tripped over themselves.

"There's a job to be done."

"Well. Yes, of course there is. Lead the way, dear witcher."

The nightwraith was strong, howling her fury across the field as Jaskier winced and half hid behind his hands, but Geralt's previous exertion didn't seem to have impacted him in the slightest. There was a brief tussle as Geralt got the measure of her, but then he flung something to the ground that glowed with a flood of purple light as bright as the low hanging moon, and she was trapped, swiftly dispatched with a precise swing of his sword.

Jaskier mused, as the witcher fought, that the spell's amethyst made the gold of Geralt's eyes glow particularly brightly, and the silver sword shone with an almost otherworldly light as it leapt in his hand.

Her dress was torn and grey, dull in comparison to the sword, but then there had been the moonlight too; surely there's something he can do with colours that won't sound too trite. That stunning purple luminescence was too striking to pass up.

Afterwards Geralt wiped his sword on the ground, getting off the worst of the dark ichor, and Jaskier pushed away from the tree where he lounged, tucking his notebook back into his pocket as he handed Geralt the sack. The wraith's head, held by her long dark hair, went straight into the bag, and it was a relief not to have her cold eyes, filmy with death even before Geralt struck her down, staring up at him.

Back in the clearing Roach was eager to head towards town, kicking up her heels as Geralt mounted. Jaskier trotted alongside, holding his lute strap firmly to stop it bouncing.

Perhaps the barmaid would still be around. Seemed a bit wrong, pursuing a second bedmate in one night, but then his coupling with Geralt had hardly been much more than scratching an itch. No harm in asking, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

_The hero of the hour betrayed_  
_A debt of silver gone unpaid_  
_The White Wolf brings the word to pack_  
_The witchers never will come back_

A few weeks later they were quite unceremoniously run out of town without getting to claim the pay for Geralt's contract.

The witcher at least managed a wash before they left, after arriving too early to visit the alderman and instead rinsing off in Jaskier's second hand bathwater, not bothering to heat it after it had sat cold overnight.

Unfortunately the sight of the chitinous body in a heap outside the tavern had been one step too far for the villagers, blood brought to a boil by rumours of child-stealing witchers and unholy rituals. Geralt had been barely dry before the shouting crowd outside the inn began to coalesce into a clear demand that he leave, the late-rising alderman lurking at the back with a sly look that told them exactly where the unpaid funds would be ending up.

Jaskier cursed the howling villagers with the foulest words he could muster, denouncing them and their children and their parents and the mangy curs that slunk through the streets. Geralt merely ducked his head and strode away grim faced, one steadying hand on Roach's reins and the other at his side, open and unarmed, ready to block anything that might be flung towards him.

Stalking alongside him, barely flinching at the furious red faces that confronted him, Jaskier turned this way and that to roar futilely back at them, even his performer's voice drowned out by their baying.

"He saved this damned town, and this is how you repay him? Not even the decency to give him his coin, you witless, feckless fools, see if a witcher ever comes through these parts again! He should have left you to the kikimore!"

As he turned to another villager a rough pair of hands shoved him towards Geralt, and he stumbled and would have fallen if not for the witcher's quick reaction; Jaskier rounded furiously on the culprit, fist raised as the burly man's neighbours jeered at him. Geralt hauled him away with a hand in the back of his doublet, scruffing him like an errant pup, and pushed him ahead as they headed to the gates. Jaskier fought him at first, spitting and snarling, but the witcher was implacable and eventually he subsided into nothing more than bitter cursing.

Once they passed through the gates the crowd went no further and the pair descended into relative peace, though the cacophony behind them didn't diminish until long after Geralt had released the bard's doublet and he'd tugged it neat with prickly irritation.

"Absolute _bastards_ ," he seethed, kicking at a rock and sending it flying across the road to thud into a ditch.

Geralt glanced at him mildly, and Jaskier spun to face him, walking backwards unheeding of the well-worn ruts in the road that threatened to trip him. "How can you just let them _do_ that? You saved their poxy little backwater town and they didn't give you - anything! Not even - just - they - _argh_!" For once words failed him, and he threw up his hands in disgust, stomping ahead down the path, a scowl fixed to his face.

A half hour later he was still fuming, though the steady thud of Roach's hooves into the dusty road behind him hadn't paused once, Geralt stoic and silent as he walked alongside her.

A signpost proved the catalyst for his rage once again, and he yanked his pen knife from his pocket, bounding over to the post with determination on his face. If he blunted the knife on the wood his quills could just remain dull for a little while, and Geralt would surely lend him a whetstone. Using the post for balance, he clambered up on a rock and reached up towards the village name.

"Jaskier." Geralt's voice was calm, but warning.

"Fuck off, Geralt." He was a bit far away, really, but on his tiptoes he could just-

A strong arm wrapped around his waist and hauled him backwards, straight into a familiar armour-clad chest. He shrieked in dismayed fury.

"Let me _go_!"

Geralt held him still as he kicked and flailed, one arm around his chest and the other holding his dagger wielding hand safely away, until he slumped resignedly in his grip. "Done?" he asked mildly.

"...Yes." Once his feet touched the ground he bullied his way out of Geralt's grip, scowling as he spun to face him. "Doesn't it bother you? How they treat you? Like you're worthless, like you're _nothing_!"

"Used to it." Geralt watched him from across the path, arms folded across his chest as Roach took the opportunity to shove her nose in a tuft of grass. He nodded at the dagger. "Put that away before you hurt yourself."

Still incensed and wild eyed, Jaskier did as he was bade, shoving the elegant little thing back in its overly fancy sheath. "Well it _should_ bother you!" He stomped closer, chin haughty as he pointed accusingly. "You just let them get away with running you out of town, not paying you, cursing you with everything in their miserable little heads, when they should be nothing to you! You could take a hundred of them! You-"

All at once there were fists in his doublet and his back pressed against the very signpost he'd been so ready to deface. "You think at the slightest _hint_ of violence they wouldn't scream monster? _Butcher_?"

Jasker swallowed at the sudden heat in those golden eyes, the heavy scowl, but batted futilely at him all the same, still outraged on his behalf and unwilling to let the flame die out. "That swindling alderman knew precisely what he was doing when he got them all riled up, sending them out with pitchforks in their hands and rage in their hearts!"

"Better rage than _terror_ ," Geralt snapped back, driving him back against the wood to punctuate his words. The sign creaked alarmingly, and the witcher gritted his teeth, turning his head to take a deep breath, forcing himself calm.

Jaskier's chest heaved against the hands holding him steady, watching that proud face turn away from him; a muscle jumped in the great jaw, and bone white hair spilled over the stubborn brow to hide golden eyes.

"Fuck," he spat out, then reached for Geralt's sword belt and used it to haul him in close, close enough that he could feel breath on his lips when he turned back. "You stupid noble _idiot_. Fuck me."

The hands twisted in his doublet tightened and then released, Geralt stepping well out of his reach to stare back at him. "What?"

"I'm angry, you're - well you _should_ be angry, and I think we should fuck. Work out some of that energy."

Nonplussed, Geralt blinked at him, arms awkwardly by his sides.

Jaskier brushed at his doublet - yanked front _and_ back, all in one day, the line of it would be ruined - and grabbed for Roach's reins. "C'mon." Roach snorted, digging her heels in and jerking her head back, and Jaskier let go sharpish, backing away with a quick pleading glance. "Uh, Geralt..."

The witcher shook his head, but obligingly led Roach off the path through the trees. Jaskier followed, heart racing.

Far enough off the path that they wouldn't be heard, Geralt turned back to him. Jaskier was already undoing his breeches, fumbling in his pack for a vial he threw at the witcher before bracing himself unceremoniously against a tree.

"Are you sure?"

"Melitele's tits, Geralt, stop being so damned noble." Breeches around his knees, Jaskier shoved down his smallclothes too and peered over his shoulder. "Either bring your gorgeous self over here or give me the damn oil back."

His free hand yanking at his breeches, Geralt uncorked the oil with his teeth, a sharp bite that left twin wounds on the stopper.

Fisting his cock - already hard, already twitching in his grip - Jaskier watched as Geralt spilled half the vial over his fingers. "Fuck, yes." He buried his head in his arms, and groaned when a rough hand pushed at his arse, then a blunt finger pressed into him, slick and eager, coaxing whines and thoughtless praise from his lips as it stretched him. "Oh that feels so _good_ , touch me, right there, I can take it, yes, fuck, Geralt, _yes_ -"

There was a low snort behind him. "Do you ever shut up?"

"Never!" he gasped out, and then the finger pulled away and was replaced by something much, much larger. "Oh, fuck."

Geralt grunted, and then hands were on his hips and he was being split open and whining and then _fuck_ Geralt's cock was in him, _yes_.

He's tight, so fucking tight and he's only had one admittedly large finger and Geralt's cock is too big for that really but damned if he's going to stop now.

Jaskier heaved in a deep breath, forehead heavy on his arm where it rested against rough bark, sun browned skin paling under pressure. A broad hand gripped his shoulder, firm but gentle. "Alright?"

No, not really, it fucking _stung_ , but having this from his witcher is well worth it, even if he should have demanded a little more preparation, shouldn't have played the whore quite so well. "Yes, just - wait, wait."

An affirmative grunt from behind him, and Geralt obligingly, perhaps surprisingly, didn't move an inch. Jaskier found himself absurdly grateful for that mercy, not one he probably deserved after throwing himself so wantonly at the witcher without so much as a by-your-leave.

Once the initial burn dissolved into a heady fullness Jaskier slowly impaled himself on Geralt's cock, easing back in tiny rolls until after an eternity his arse finally met firm thighs and he let out a guttural moan.

Geralt curled around him, chin on his shoulder so the sides of their faces pressed together, the witcher's skin cool against his though they were both sweat damp. "Alright?" He asked again, and Jaskier nodded.

"Fuck me, witcher."

It was steady and slow at first, Geralt still unsure of his welcome so deep in Jaskier's body, but after a while the clench loosened and he started to fuck in earnest, much to Jaskier's babbling delight. Strong hips snapped hard enough to shift him up onto his toes each time, shoving him forward despite Jaskier's attempts to brace himself, until finally Geralt had to wrap an arm around his chest to keep him steady.

The studs of the armour - gods, he still had on the damned chest piece, at least he'd taken off the gloves, although isn't that a thought - dug into his skin, the ones cutting at the thin skin over the jut of his shoulder blade a particularly painful note. Witcher equivalent of love bites, Jaskier thought to himself, and had to bite back a snort that would give entirely the wrong impression. The next thrust fucked the thought out of him anyway, and then all he could do was whimper as a hand wrapped around his cock and worked him in time with those gloriously powerful thrusts.

With a strangled curse he came in messy spurts across the base of the tree, and behind him Geralt groaned and closed his teeth on the meat of his shoulder.

Jaskier's groan turned into a yelp but then there was a swell of heat and stuttering hips before silence, broken only by their heaving breaths.

"Fuck," he said eloquently, slumping forward out of Geralt's grip to rest bodily against the tree.

"Less pissed off now?" Geralt's voice was low and amused.

"Mm." He winced as Geralt's cock slid out, a slick unpleasant rush of come following before he tensed, though his muscles were tired and loose and it probably wouldn't do him much good.

The witcher was already on the move, though he did have the decency to dig out a worn shirt - not one covered in kikimore - for Jaskier to smear away the worst of the oil and spend. "Thanks."

He was a little dismayed when Geralt tugged at Roach's reins, leading her back towards the path, but fumbled his breeches together with still-trembling hands and bundled up the shirt, tucking it away in his own pack.

By the time he'd staggered back to the open road Geralt was mounted and waiting. He moved off without a word, face unreadable. After a moment of openmouthed staring at the sight of the witcher meandering down the road without so much as a glance back, Jaskier jogged a little to catch up, wincing.

His arse ached, but it was a familiar burn, though admittedly one he's used to soothing with a lie down on a proper bed, and he could feel the come slipping steadily and uncomfortably into his small clothes as he trailed obediently after horse and rider.

When after a while he caught sight of a stream bubbling cool and clear further down the hillside, he begged Geralt wait for him while he cleaned up, a quick rinse in ice cold water before dragging his breeches back on, soiled small clothes getting tucked away in his pack with the shirt.

The unimpressed look Geralt gave him as he returned to the path was the first time he'd made eye contact, and Jaskier pulled a face, trying to keep his sense of shame from spilling into his cheeks. "If you didn't want me to stop and rinse off you shouldn't have got your witcher spend all up in me."

Uncouth, but Geralt shook his head with a hint of amusement and urged Roach back into a walk. With a sigh of relief, and only the smallest ache in his chest - probably just a bruise where Geralt had held him so tight - Jaskier trudged in his wake.


	3. Chapter 3

  
_Avalanche of bitter grey_  
_Sharp edges cut the softness of me_  
_A foolish step into empty air_  
_Breath catches_  
_Hand snatches_  
_Fall alone in grey despair_

The day had been achingly long, a relentless slog from early dawn up tricky slopes that turned treacherous underfoot at the slightest misstep, spilling sharp slate across the path and over the cliff edge with a clatter. It had left them all - including Roach - picking their way with full attention the whole day, with Jaskier so focused that even his usual snatches of humming had quickly dropped off to nothing, the only sounds the crunching of their feet and Jaskier's occasional harsh gasp when a step betrayed him. Once or twice he half dropped to his knees in a skitter of rock, catching himself on the protruding cliffside or on the ground itself with a bitten-off curse.

Jaskier tired quicker than normal on the rough ground, and long before the sun dipped below the horizon Geralt called a halt, concerned that despite Jaskier's best efforts his increasingly unguarded stumbling steps would bring half a mountain down on them. Jaskier was clearly aware that the stop was for his benefit, but didn't comment on it beyond a grateful glance as Geralt turned them off the path.

Once they were settled, Roach tied to a tree instead of left to roam for fear of drifting too close to the edge in the dark, Jaskier slumped down with a sigh. "Can't believe we only left town this morning, feels like a lifetime ago."

The pine trees clinging to the edges of the mountain gave little shelter, but it was a warm enough night and the same trees provided plenty of firewood, so they were soon eating the provisions they'd tucked in saddlebags only hours before, fresh bread and cheese and the honey cakes Geralt not-so-secretly loved.

Replete, Jaskier slumped over, but with fingers scraped raw from catching himself he was in no mood for lute playing, instead sucking at the injured digits with a mournful expression. Unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, Geralt embraced the silence, though of course Jaskier eventually broke it.

"I hate this mountain," he complained. "My hands are grievously wounded, I shall probably never play again." He had perhaps a dozen scrapes across his hands, of which maybe two were deep enough to draw blood, but admittedly one on his left hand did look sore, catching the bend of two fingers just so that it must sting when he bent them. He was certainly not maimed for life, despite his tragic claims.

"I should be so blessed."

"You weren't complaining when it earned us our meals last night," Jaskier reprimanded him.

"Only because I was busy eating before you could steal it," Geralt sniped back, and Jaskier laughed.

"I've seen you talk with your mouth full plenty of times, maybe I should simply be grateful that wasn't one of them."

A crust of bread hit Jaskier's forehead with unerring accuracy. Never one to waste food, Jaskier snatched it up, brushed away an imaginary speck of dirt, and popped it in his mouth. Geralt shook his head. "I thought I was the one raised by wolves."

Jaskier bared his teeth in a mock snarl, the flickering firelight lending him a vicious countenance. When the mouthful was gone, he stretched with a groan. "Melitele's tits, I'll be glad when we're through this pass."

Geralt grunted his agreement, watching as Jaskier stripped off his doublet and chemise, and with a thud his boots too, to curl up on his bedroll under a blanket in just his breeches.

"I'll-" he yawned, wide and cracking, "See you in the morning, Geralt."

Lying in the firelit dark for a long time, Geralt eventually turned his head to the bard, eyeing him across the clearing.

"Jaskier."

"Hmmph?"

"Come here."

"'m sleeping." Jaskier buried himself deeper in his blanket.

"Jaskier."

"F'ck off, 'ralt." There was no heat in it, and Geralt snorted.

"Can I come over there?"

"Mmm." Not a no. Close enough. Geralt stood, picking up his bedroll and slung it none-too-carefully next to Jaskier's with a slap. Jaskier bolted upright at the sound, eyes wild, but then slumped back down, turning disbelieving eyes on the witcher. "What are you _doing_?"

Geralt threw himself back on his bedroll with a thud, easy and careless. "Want to fuck?" He felt a little guilty for asking after their long day, but he'd been turned down by four brothels in three towns - including the most lice-riddled one he could find; Jaskier had managed to get his end away more times than he can count since then, and the arousal low in his gut at the sex-and-satisfaction smell of him every time he returned from a liaison had started to chafe. Now was as good a time as any.

There was a long, pregnant pause. "Geralt," Jaskier said incredulously, voice still low and tripping over his tongue with fatigue, "I'm so tired I can't even _move_ , and you want to fuck?"

Geralt looked at his bard, taking in the heavy bags under his eyes, the stiffness in his spine as he curled on his bedroll, the careful way he curled his hands against his bare chest so none of the injuries touched anything but the delicate night air, and felt a sudden pang of guilt. Not entirely his fault that Geralt had spent the last few nights alone. "Forget it."

He rolled away, staring through the heavy pine branches at the pinpricks of light above them. It felt a bit unfair, is all, when he's seen Jaskier head off with umpteen people at the end of a night of playing, hands all but trembling with exhaustion, but now that it's Geralt asking he's decided he'd rather sleep.

He was well on his way to a full-on sulk when a touch at his hip caught his attention, and when he looked down those bright blue eyes were gazing up at him, still dull with tiredness but soft too. "I can... help out. If you want?" He wiggled reddened fingers suggestively.

Geralt was too caught up in his own sourness - yes, he knew it was ridiculous, but he was tired and cranky, and horny, and very fed up of being turfed unceremoniously out of brothels - to respond with anything other than a grunt.

Jaskier smiled up at him and it lit up his whole face, banishing the gloom, and suddenly it took all Geralt's considerable strength to limit his own grin.

The hand on his hip slid across to his groin, pressed firmly at the still-eager ridge there, and Geralt let out a soft huff. Fingers caught at the laces until they split apart, the fumbling weight of them not unpleasant.

"Forgot how big you are," Jaskier mused half to himself, tucking his hand beneath Geralt's cock to curl around it and ease him free.

There was a shuffling of blankets, and when they settled again there was a heavy weight on Geralt's hip, digging the ridge of his trousers uncomfortably into his hip. He reached down to adjust, expecting to nudge aside a carelessly placed elbow, but instead met a tousle of soft hair. Peering down his bare chest, he could see Jaskier's head resting on him, gaze apparently transfixed by the sight of the thick cock sliding through his fingers.

His prick jerked at the sight, and Jaskier hissed out a breath as his injured skin caught or perhaps a drop of salty precome stung him, but at Geralt's guilty enquiry Jaskier glanced up at him, a soft grin spreading across his face as he squirmed forward, tongue poking pink and eager between his lips.

Geralt closed his eyes before Jaskier could reach his goal, but the wet heat around him was unmistakable and he let out a very un-witchery yelp.

The vibration of Jaskier's muted laugh around his tip made him shudder, and then a clever tongue was sweeping the length of him, plump lips holding him tight, filthy wet slurping making his gut clench with pleasure.

"Fuck, Jaskier!"

Jaskier proved, quite unequivocally, that his mouth was talented at far more than just singing. But as he licked and sucked and _very lightly_ bit at Geralt's length, his movements slowed. Geralt looked down at him, seeing cheeks pink from exertion and the heat of the fire, eyes closed in apparent satisfaction, tongue still moving steadily but slowing, slowing. Eventually he came to a stop, and Geralt had to hold himself back in frustration. "Jaskier, what-?"

Jaskier hummed, blinking up at him, lips still stretched around his cock, then pulled back to mutter, "Sorry, sorry," before redoubling his attentions, bringing up a hand to wrap sore fingers around the base.

It was barely a few minutes before he slowed again, moving from enthusiastic sucking to a gentle hold, hand loosening. Geralt reached out a hand, trailing it through the dark hair, huffing a breath out of his nose as Jaskier's head slumped against his belly.

Fuck.

He let his own head drop back on the bedroll.

There were still lips wrapped around him, slack and loose in exhausted sleep. He thought briefly about taking himself in hand, but instead tucked fingers under Jaskier's chin to ease himself out of his mouth.

Jaskier woke briefly again, eyes blinking hazily as Geralt helped him shift back to his own bedroll. At his mumbled words Geralt hushed him, and Jaskier settled back into sleep, clearly exhausted. A hand snuck out from the blanket, catching his hip as Geralt tucked himself away still hard. "S'ry."

"It's ok. You were - good," Geralt whispered, barely loud enough to rise above the crackling of the dying fire, but Jaskier's hand tightened briefly on his hip, and he knew he'd been heard.

They would wake in the morning, well rested and both eager with morning hardness, and before the day had even begun Jaskier would make good on his offer, slicked thighs instead of red raw hands, and with Geralt's hand on his prick their ecstasy would echo amid the sharp rocks.

*-*-*-*-*

A few months later Jaskier lay half asleep, on his back beside his witcher, body aching in the best possible way as Geralt snored quietly beside him.

Neither of them had received any 'offers' that evening, in a small tavern in a small town on the edge of nowhere, and falling into bed together again had seemed easier than going to the trouble of finding a brothel.

It had become a regular thing when neither of them had another partner or anything better to do, fucking or on occasion Jaskier sucking his witcher dry and stripping himself desperately. As Jaskier had turned his considerable talents at seduction on the man lying beside him, other offers had been extended less and less often - why seek out anything else when he had a perfect, gorgeous witcher who would fuck him almost any time he asked for it? And it mostly had to be asked for; Geralt had either little awareness of or little care for flirting unless Jaskier flung himself bodily at him with his legs spread, and on the occasions when the witcher initiated it was very, very obvious what he wanted, big hands and solid strength moving Jaskier exactly where he wanted him - usually on his back, much to Jaskier's yelping, squirming delight.

But blinking up at the ceiling in the gloom he thought, mouth twisting a little, _I miss it. I miss sinking into slick heat, arse or cunt or mouth._ As delicious as it is to be fucked, a hand on his prick just didn't feel the same.

Even more than that, he missed the feeling of taking care of his partner, of pressing them down into the mattress and taking them apart until they all but weep with pleasure. Yes, he took care of Geralt in other ways, bathing him and confronting humans when the noble idiot wouldn't dare and singing for their supper, but they don't exactly kiss, and he can count on one hand the number of times Geralt's lost control in the bedroom, moaned without restraint or come first, at least when it's not just Jaskier doing the work on his knees.

Perhaps Geralt might not want to bottom - not all men do and that's _fine_ , Jaskier can get that elsewhere if he truly wants it, though it seems a travesty when there's a gorgeous witcher in his bed - but he misses the rest, the sweet nothings and heaped praise he loves to bestow on his bedmates. It doesn't seem right to do that to Geralt, to praise him when the man's so obviously treating this whole _thing_ as just a way to scratch an itch.

But his lips tingle at the thought, and his heart aches. This could be so much more, and at first he'd thought it might have been. Thought, once upon a time, that there could have been something real and long-lasting between them. But Geralt doesn't want that. Geralt just wants a warm, convenient body, he doesn't have time for the petty desires of a foolish bard.

Jaskier could just about manage a romance-less life if he could occasionally bury himself in the witcher and fuck him senseless, or accept only ever being penetrated if he could bite gentle kisses along that strong jaw. Romance or topping, it's not exactly asking for the world, but just to be given _something_. Not just empty fucking, however good. He can get that elsewhere, as much as the thought pains him.

He curled onto his side, close enough on the small bed that he could feel the curve of Geralt's back against his where the witcher faced into the room, and clasped his hands up to his chest with a sigh.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sweetbreads, honey, richest wine,_   
_None sweeter than your mouth on mine_

It had been a long day, filled with frustrations, not least an unappreciative audience that had left Jaskier smarting with their heckles.

Geralt expected that when they got up to their room Jaskier would fling the oil at him and sprawl out on the bed demandingly, face pressed into the mattress, and he'd been half hard in anticipation since the rousing but fruitless encore had drifted through the tavern. Instead, the bard draped himself over the lone chair and looked mournful.

Slightly lost, Geralt sat on the bed, watching him carefully, and it didn't take much observation before Jaskier peeled himself up and took the space next to Geralt with a great sigh. When he reached out, eyes downcast, to trail his fingers along a firm bicep Geralt intercepted him, catching his hand to tug him down to the mattress. Jaskier went easily, swinging his legs up and wrapping them around his waist with a lopsided smile.

Geralt loomed over him, hands either side of his head as he ground their hips together, Jaskier tightening his legs to rut back just as keenly until they were both hard.

One of them gasped, low and urgent, and something flickered across Jaskier's reddening face. He reached up to tighten a hand around Geralt's wrist, looking at where long fingers curled against pale flesh, and his eager hips slowed, the heady scent of lust around them fading into something more bitter. Though his cock throbbed and ached at the loss, Geralt eased away. "What's wrong?"

Jaskier's fingers twitched, a quick bite at the firm flesh beneath them. Tentatively, not making eye contact, he asked, "Is this... How you always fuck?"

Geralt grunted a yes. It said, quite clearly, _this is how I fuck men, and I don't see anything wrong with that_. And possibly also, _you started this, don't complain that you got what you wanted_. Men were for rough and tumble fucking, he wouldn't lie with a woman like that unless she asked, though some did - after all, not many would want to lie with a witcher for sweet talking and romance.

"I could..." Jaskier hesitated, then seemed to rethink his words, eyes flicking around the room, "We could take our time a little, if you want. Kiss, touch a bit." He looked up and gave a smile that looked almost nervous, and the sound of his heart rate thudded in Geralt's sensitive ears. "Doesn't have to be a quick fuck then getting on with things." _A quick fuck_ was jarring, not least because they both knew witcher stamina meant 'quick' was rarely that. But Geralt reined himself back in, settling onto his knees to consider the offer from a safer distance.

It was tempting. Jaskier was good in bed, better than good, and that was without any attempt to do anything other than scratch an itch. He'd probably be just as good at kissing as he was at sucking cock, or at riding one.

The damn bard would probably get too attached, wanting more commitment than he can give - humans can be so needy, so needlessly wrapped up in emotions - but it'd be simple enough to scare him off, or just to leave him behind, if he starts to grate.

Geralt ignored the fact that Jaskier had _grated_ for months, years, and nothing he'd done had come close to sending the bard away. Not that he'd really tried after the first month, when the youth had proven himself more stubborn than expected.

It's nice to have a willing bedmate, one who doesn't try to hide their fear behind perfumes and oils and that he has to send away because the stink of fear is the least arousing thing he's ever smelt, up there with wyvern dung and buckthorn.

At last, mind still racing but certain of his choice, he nodded, though his jaw clenched a little.

Jaskier's face brightened, teeth flashing white as he grinned. "Can I touch your chest, then? It's quite honestly the most perfectly formed chest I've ever seen and if I was any sort of sculptor I would spend a lifetime trying to capture it in marble..."

Somewhere along the line Geralt nodded again, and then clever hands were on his chest, stroking through the rough cotton, feeling the outline of heavy muscles and touching the odd puckered scar.

When the fabric barrier became too restricting, Jaskier shoved at it impatiently, and Geralt obediently tugged it up and over his head.

"You are a _god_ ," Jaskier breathed out, giving himself a second to stare before descending once again with eager hands, this time smoothing his hands over bare skin, trailing through rough chest hair and brushing reverently at carved collar bones. His fingers hesitated over a bump of knitted bone and he looked up in askance. He knew the stories for most of the scars, after all, but this one was only discernible to touch.

"Training," Geralt offered. A tumble from the Trail one icy winter morning before he'd gone through the trials, when he'd been too busy larking with Eskel to pay attention to the thin layer of black ice. He'd walked back to the keep alone after the training master had chivvied his friend along, arriving miserable and cold and covered in bruises from the fall off the path, arm hanging loose, and it had been weeks before he was fully healed.

Jaskier nodded, and resumed his careful exploration, leaving trails of heat and goosebumps in his wake. Geralt's hands itched but he wasn't sure-

"You can touch me too, if you want?" A sultry smile, guileless blue eyes, and his belly lurched. He nodded, and Jaskier scrambled to strip off his own doublet and undershirt until he flopped back on the bed in just his impractically bright breeches, displaying a dark-furred chest and muscles that surprised him every time with their solidity. Wriggling a little to get comfortable, Jaskier gave him a coquettish look beneath long lashes before breaking into peals of laughter. "Don't look so worried, I won't eat you!"

_But I might break you_ , Geralt thought, before reaching out tentatively to trail a finger down Jaskier's chest, stroking the unblemished skin with reverence.

"Come here, you ridiculous witcher." Jaskier curled up, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and dragging him in for a kiss.

Geralt folded willingly against him as Jaskier's lips met his, chapped and dry from their travels. Not their first kiss, but he could probably count them on one hand, and certainly this was more gentle than the usual mid-fuck collision.

He could feel Jaskier's heart thudding against him where their bodies met, the roughness of the sheets under his hand, and then the sweet tentative touch of a tongue against his lower lip. It was easy to open to that tongue, to reach back with his own, and when Jaskier let out a broken gasp he took his chance, kissing deep and firm, drawing out more gasps and moans and sparring twists of that clever silver tongue. Jaskier's mouth was as sweet and talented as he'd expected, keen and quick and welcoming.

When they paused for breath, both panting hard, Jaskier took a good handful of arse and groaned a little. "Gods, you're perfect."

"I'm not bending over for you," Geralt snarled, heart suddenly racing.

Jaskier gave him a wide smile, not a hint of hurt in it, though perhaps he's a better performer than Geralt gives him credit for, and said very seriously, "I would never ask anything of you that you weren't comfortable with."

There's a long list of things he's asked that Geralt has been distinctly uncomfortable with, starting with travelling at his side to the slice of veal pinched from his plate at dinner, but in the end, all those things are inconsequential when weighed against what he knows, which is that Jaskier - for all his faults - would never truly push him. Not when it mattered.

He nodded, and Jaskier resumed his groping, head smothered into his neck, mouth open as he sucked wet kisses into delicate skin, rubbing the cut of his jaw against the day's stubble to feel the rasp of it. Geralt took the opportunity to touch him back, delicate skin at his waist sliding smooth against callused fingers, the scent of him and the softness of his hair filling his senses.

He kept finding himself distracted, by the taste of the bard's neck or the feel of the delicate skin at the bend of his elbow or the smell of lust rising around them, but eventually Jaskier's hands nudged at his chest to push him back, eyes bright and sweet kiss-reddened lips spread in a smile.

Geralt reared back, suddenly embarrassed at his own ardour, but Jaskier hushed him, pulling him back down and gentling him against his breast. "It's just - if you keep doing that, it's going to be over much quicker than my carefully cultivated reputation would like," the bard explained.

"Keep doing what?"

Jaskier's eyes softened. "The licking and stroking and _sniffing_ , the whole 'taking an awful lot of interest in every little bit of me' thing."

"Oh." Geralt paused. "Sorry."

"Oh, darling, no, it was lovely, I promise. Just a lot, to be the focus of a witcher's full attention, instead of just the focus of your cock."

Geralt dropped his head back down, burying it in Jaskier's shoulder, but limited himself to breathing slow and steady, no deep inhalations or tempting nibbles at the salt-rich skin as Jaskier petted his back, petted his hair.

"Don't go shutting down on me now, that was all particularly lovely and I can't wait to continue it." Jaskier's voice was firm, and Geralt rumbled his assent, though he still burned a little with shame.

After a while, once Jaskier's heart was no longer trying to leap from his chest, the bard squirmed underneath him to hook a leg around Geralt's knee until with a drive of his hips he rolled them over, looking down triumphantly. Geralt smiled back at him from the pillow, magnanimous and indulgent, but Jaskier's face shifted from glee to something much softer, and he reached out to cup Geralt's face with dreadful tenderness.

"You deserve nothing but good things," he said quietly, thumb stroking against his wind-roughened cheek.

Geralt looked away, not wanting to meet the intensity of that gaze, and Jaskier mercifully released him, scrambling off the bed and tugging at his breeches with enthusiasm. Fingers a little numb, Geralt did the same, lifting his hips to slide breeches and small clothes down his legs, dropping them on the floor as the bard sat astride him, wriggling gleefully at the feel of the witcher's thick length between his arse cheeks.

"Comfortable?" Geralt asked wryly.

"Very." He wriggled again, more purposefully with a roll of his hips, and Geralt couldn't help but laugh at his wicked expression.

"You, bard, are a pain," he grumbled, but rested his hands on the taut legs gripping his hips as Jaskier eased over him, thick cock nudging up against his balls, riding him until Geralt's eyes shuttered and his hands dug into the meat of Jaskier's thighs in an attempt to keep him still. "Oil." When he just rocked again Geralt snarled at him until he laughed, open mouthed and pretty.

"Ooh, that's very fierce, I better do as I'm told."

Despite his mocking Jaskier fetched the oil, something smelling of sweet flowers, and eased back over Geralt's hips. Coating a finger he lifted up, cock bobbing obscenely, and reached behind him.

Geralt watched, mesmerised by the expression on the bard's face and the odd glimpse he got of those clever fingers working their way inside. Occasionally Jaskier would look down at him, blue eyes blown wide, smile small and secretively, and then tip his head back with a groan as he reached some new bliss.

There was no urgency about it, no frantic urge to satisfy, and when Jaskier finally sank down on his cock it was no battle between them, no harsh victory as Geralt conquered the bard's body but instead a welcoming embrace.

Geralt's hands skittered across Jaskier's body, fickle and greedy, stroking strong thighs as they flexed, or licking across nipples or even once daring to pull him down into a kiss, as he rode Geralt in a languid, relentless rhythm.

After a while Geralt lost track of time, the world drawing down around them until all he could feel was tight slick heat, all he could see was the sweat and shadows on Jaskier's skin as the bard let his head fall back in ecstasy, mouth half open as he panted out broken-off whines.

There was a sudden moment of silence and then Jaskier was shivering, shuddering, coming in seemingly endless waves until he curled in on himself with the pleasure of it, groaning deep in his throat.

The tension, the grip around his cock was enough to drag Geralt over the edge too, and before his eyes closed he saw Jaskier looking up at him, sea blue eyes drenched in black, nothing on his face but adoration.

He thought he cried out, or said something, but if he did he couldn't remember what it was.

Once his own shudders had passed, Jaskier pulled away and fumbled for a rag before collapsing back into bed, a warm sweaty presence across Geralt's chest.

As Jaskier's heart rate slowed, thudding reassuringly in Geralt's ears, he wrapped an arm around the bard's shoulders and held him close. The weight of him was a comfort, grounding him as he let his thoughts freely spin, his own heart racing far more than it should as his mind peeled back the decades.

He'd messed with other lads in Kaer Morhen - no other choice, really, dozens of youths with raging hormones driven even higher by the mutagens - but that had mostly been hands and rutting under thick furs, shivering in the chill of the northern winters, brief moments of bliss amongst the hardship of witcher training. Kisses, once or twice, but mostly just rough and tumble fucking between strong young men with nowhere else to direct their urges.

At their most competitive, in the final years of training before they left for the Path, some of the lads had raised the stakes.

Bending over for another, that was a forfeit for losing a fight, as good as flipping a coin for most of them except that Geralt so rarely lost a fair fight that it was never him on his back or hunched over a pile of furs.

A few months after the suggestion made its way through the dorms Geralt had watched Eskel badly throw a fight and get a thrashing for it from their training master; the young witcher he'd fought had met him outside the training yard laughing and they'd left for Eskel's room. Geralt had been left behind, scowling and confused.

He hadn't put his arse on the line more than half a dozen times, though a fair few had asked with eager faces. On the rare occasion he had fought with those stakes, he'd won as emphatically as he usually did, taking the lad to bed and sinking into him as the other moaned and opened underneath him.

A couple of times Eskel had offered to fight for it, a look in his eyes that had something shifting in Geralt's gut, but he hadn't wanted to fight with that at risk, hadn't wanted to risk losing and having himself vulnerable even under Eskel - _especially_ under Eskel. Worse, he hadn't known if it was a fight he even wanted to win. Instead he'd turned away, dismissed the offer. Eskel had at least had the decency to not mock him for it, but each time he'd looked oddly disappointed.

He'd stopped laying with Eskel at all after the second challenge, had felt it wrong to writhe and pant together if he wasn't willing to offer this one thing, whichever way round it ended up being.

Lying in the thin bed, Jaskier's warm human body curled against him and soft breaths drifting over his chest, Geralt closed his eyes. The last thing he saw before falling into an uneasy sleep was Eskel's open expression as he'd laid himself on the line.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice consistent chapter lengths-  
> -haha final chapter go brrrr  
> (Hope the double-length chapter is worth it)

_She's a heartbreaking fantasy_  
_Golden hair and wicked eyes_  
_Vicious words, but I'll pay no mind_  
_'Long as I'm betwixt her thighs_  


The fire crackling in the pub hearth was a welcome shield against the chill outside, and Geralt savoured his post-bath ale. No music, either, and he savoured that too; a bard - unfortunately not Jaskier - would be playing in the evening but for now all he could hear was the fire, the clatter of the kitchen, and the low murmur of Gwent players in the corner. Perhaps later he would join in, perhaps not, but resting his feet against the heat of the fire and sipping the heavy ale was all a witcher could ask for after a long day on the road.

He peeled one eye open to search for his bard, finding him safely ensconced in a corner, whispering low to a handsome young man whose eyes were eagerly drinking in everything Jaskier had to offer, his pretty face and elegant hands and unlaced doublet - _fully_ unlaced, the irrepressible tart, all the way to his ridiculous bright green breeches. Geralt grumbled to himself a little, but let his eye drift shut again, keeping an ear out for any sound of Jaskier leaving.

He finished off the ale; a second one appeared as though magicked and he grunted his thanks. As he sat there soaking up the heat a familiar gait strolled past, matched pace for pace by another.

Sniffing in judgement, he would have said no more except that under the dual tones of lust coming from the two men was something worryingly familiar, and his medallion gave the very slightest warning hum against his chest.

Lifting his feet from their rest, he rose and followed the bard to the door.

"Jaskier."

Jaskier shot him a look that said _fuck off, Geralt, I'm busy_.

The scent of arousal grew stronger now he was closer to the pair of them, but the undercut of copper was stronger too, rising from Jaskier's partner, stale blood from at least two different sources. The dark haired man looked up at him and blanched, before stepping back with his hands raised and a placating smile. "No harm meant, witcher, I was only..."

Geralt took two looming, heavy paces towards him and the lad turned tail and ran, straight out the door without so much as a backwards glance at Jaskier.

"Oh for - Geralt!"

Unrepentant, Geralt folded his arms. Any other man might have been intimidated.

"Right. You, me, upstairs." Jaskier stared at him mulishly. "Now! Or I swear I'll give you a bollocking right here in front of everyone and your reputation will never recover."

Geralt went.

Upstairs, Jaskier slammed the door and hissed at him, half puffed-up cat and entirely pissed off, "What is _wrong_ with you? He was perfectly willing, _I_ was perfectly willing, I could have fucked him twice and been back by morning."

"Not human," Geralt grunted.

Jaskier didn't take the obvious option of yelling back _nor are you_ , and Geralt hated himself a little more for even anticipating that wound.

"Just because a man wanted me to top him, doesn't mean he's not human." It sounded sulky and bitter.

"Not what I meant."

Jaskier scowled at him. "I know that, you absolute prick." He sighed, and added mournfully, "I just wanted to get laid."

Geralt tilted his head. "I could..."

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

"I'll fucking get on my back then, shall I?"

Geralt looked at him, bewildered by the sudden return to wild gesticulation and anger, and Jaskier's face darkened further.

"It doesn't always have to be the same way round, you know! You shoving your prick in me. Didn't you ever think that sometimes I'd want to be the one on top? The one doing the fucking?"

The thought of that slammed through Geralt like a potion, a head to toe visceral dismissal of it. "I'm not _weak_ ," he snarled, and something in Jaskier's face twisted.

Geralt forgets, sometimes, that they're of a height. He knows his bulk fills a room far more than Jaskier's slimmer frame, but the bard has broad shoulders and solid thighs and is no delicate bird, for all he sings a pretty song.

He was certainly no songbird now, eyes bright and furious, voice low and venomous with all the vocal skill he brings to his performances.

"Do you think me weak, then? When I lie on my back for you, or go to my knees? Am I a _weak man_ , Geralt?"

He hesitated, mind churning. He doesn't think Jaskier weak. Few men would be willing and able to travel with a witcher; fewer still willing to steel themselves to sew up gaping wounds, to turn their back in trust, to accompany him on a hunt and see him in his most monstrous form and not so much as flinch.

And to turn half a continent's minds, to change the view of mutant witchers, that takes strength too.

But he took too long to answer and Jaskier slumped, the fight gone out of him.

"It's not weakness, Geralt. It's just - trust. And love. And it feels really fucking good, alright?" He shook his head. "I'll go ask the innkeep for another room."

Geralt wanted to speak but the words tangled on his tongue, and instead he gritted his teeth as Jaskier grabbed his pack and left.

At the last second Jaskier caught himself in the doorway, strong arms braced against the frame with his head hanging low, and Geralt's heart leapt. The bard took a deep breath, back heaving, and turned a little to glance at Geralt's mute form, though he didn't make eye contact. The candle light flickered across his profile, and a glitter of misery welled in his eyes. "See you in the morning."

He hadn't realised something so reassuring could sound so very damning.

Fuck.

The room was suddenly very, very empty.

Twenty minutes of attempted meditation seemed to drag like an hour, and eventually he gave up, following his senses to track Jaskier down in another room at the other end of the building. He was alone, and there was a heavy sadness in the air that Geralt could smell even from the corridor.

Geralt knocked politely. "Jaskier."

"Go away." The familiar voice sounded as though Jaskier was speaking into something soft. A pillow, maybe, or just buried in his arms. Muffled and miserable.

"I'm sorry."

No answer.

" _Jaskier_. Open the door."

"Go away, Geralt."

Geralt thudded his forehead against the wood, guilt nagging at him. "I'm sorry. Please let me in."

Footsteps dragged towards the door, and when Jaskier opened it his eyes were red-rimmed, gaze cast at the floor. "Sorry," the bard muttered. "Didn't mean to shout at you. I was being stupid."

The misery in his face cut deep. "Don't - apologise. I was... look, can you let me in?" Standing in the corridor while he grovelled wasn't exactly how he'd imagined this whole thing going.

The room was just as small as the one he'd left, but it felt as though there was a great distance between them as Jaskier skittered to the other side of it, arms folded around himself, leaving Geralt beside the bed.

He sat down heavily, and the bedframe settled loudly under his weight. "I didn't realise you felt like that."

"It doesn't matter," Jaskier said stiffly. "You have your limits. I should respect that. Just - I know what people think when they look at me. I like fine silks and jewellery, I like pretty words and poetry, and sometimes I bend over for other men. I look soft and, yes, I look weak. But it hurts to know that you think that too. Especially when it's because of _you_ that we only ever do it that way round."

"I don't think that." Geralt tried hard to keep his voice soft, not howling his denial, but it was hard when Jaskier sounded so unhappy and bitter.

"Why not? If that's what you think of men who take that role, why not me?" Jaskier cocked his head to one side, cautious interest bright in his eyes.

This is why he never gets into arguments with the damned bard, he gets talked round in circles and comes away with an aching head and a distinct sense of losing an argument without even understanding what they were arguing about.

"It's different," he said gruffly.

Jaskier's face softened a little. "I'm going to sit down, and I don't want you shoving me into the mattress to avoid talking, alright?"

Mute, Geralt dipped his chin, and Jaskier sat warily beside him. Not close enough for their legs to touch, even when he leant forward to rest his elbows on his spread knees and cup his chin in his hands. They didn't make eye contact, both staring at the rough wooden floorboards.

"I like to look after my partners. Make them feel good, make them love every single second, whether they're fucking me or if I'm in them." Geralt opened his mouth to speak but Jaskier cut him off. "And yes, I really fucking love topping. I lie on my back for you but that doesn't mean that's how I always do it, and even if I did that wouldn't make me _weak_. I won't ask you to do it, but I will solemnly request that when I've found a lovely gentleman who's good enough to allow it that you don't interfere, just because you don't think I'm able to look after myself." It looked like it almost hurt him to add, "Or we'll have to stop all of this."

Geralt's gut lurched. "I - you can. With me."

Jaskier looked at him, all sharp summer-sky eyes and jaded optimism, then shook his head. "You don't want that. That's fine. But don't you dare think less of me, because _you're_ the one who's making that decision."

He felt his jaw clench, but forced it to relax. "I want to." And he realised, with a sudden rush of clarity, that it was true. He didn't want to see that naked hope turn to disappointment as it had for Eskel. He could offer a little vulnerability. Be weak, though he was starting to think that maybe it wasn't weakness after all. "You'd... make it good?"

There was silence beside him, and suddenly he was terrified that he'd said the wrong thing, that he'd managed to fuck it up after all. But when he glanced up at Jaskier there was only an aching softness in his face, and a hand carefully sliding across the space between them to rest, warm and heavy, on his thigh. "Darling, I would make it the absolute best you've ever had."

A snort of laughter leapt out of him, and though Jaskier looked mildly affronted he didn't move his hand away. After a long silence, long enough that he expected Jaskier to start fidgeting or humming, although he didn't, Geralt moved his own hand to touch the one on his thigh, tangling their fingers together.

"Now?" Geralt bit out, and it was only witcher control that stopped his hand from going clammy where it gripped Jaskier's.

When he looked up from their hands, Jaskier's face bore a terrible softness. "Doesn't have to be now. Doesn't have to be _ever_." He smiled a little, eyes still impossibly kind. "Can I kiss you?"

His answer was an armful of witcher, Geralt taking full advantage of the offer, one that was still novel despite being fully part of their last few trysts.

Jaskier opened willingly under his tongue, under his hands, and soon enough the bard was on his back on the mattress, dishevelled and panting.

When they paused for breath, hands roaming, Geralt buried his head in the crook of Jaskier's neck and muttered, "Now. I want to try now."

A quick bitten off gasp, then, "Are you sure?" Geralt growled a little, and Jaskier's hand patted his back hastily. "Right, right, of course, yes. Um. Well. That's good."

Geralt growled again, and Jaskier pushed at him. It was probably much like trying to shove a mountain, and Geralt didn't move an inch. "Well how am I supposed to react?! Half an hour ago I thought you were going to leave me for being a pushy little shit and now you're offering to lie on your back for me, it's a lot to take in."

 _Pushy little shit_ , that sounded parroted from someone else's cruel lips. And _leave_? "Jaskier..." He peeled himself away from the bard's lithe body, but Jaskier didn't meet his gaze. "It means that much? That you'd risk..."

Jaskier's mouth worked a little, forming words and discarding them, and then finding the right ones. " _Your respect_ means that much." He blinked and looked away.

Geralt rolled off him. Jaskier's heart rate tripled, and Geralt grabbed for him exasperatedly. "Get the damn oil, bard."

A blinding smile lit up Jaskier's face and he scrambled for his bag. When he turned back Geralt already had his shirt off and was working on his breeches.

"Oh," he said stupidly, mouth hanging a little.

"Get back here," Geralt grunted, as his breeches hit the floor.

"Mm, I quite like the view actually." Jaskier leant back on the low table, suddenly back in control. One by one he slid his rings from his fingers, dropping each of them on the table with measured carelessness. The metallic clatter of the first made Geralt almost jump, a suppressed shiver, despite watching the bard's every movement as though preparing to strike.

"Jaskier," he snarled, as the last ring hit the surface, and Jaskier sauntered closer, hips shifting enticingly, lifting his chemise in a well-practiced double-armed move to reveal that leanly muscled chest. When he was close enough, Geralt surged up and caught him about the waist, dragging him back down to the bed. "You're a pain whichever way round we do this."

"And you're just as glorious," Jaskier murmured, gentling fingers down the bulge in Geralt's smallclothes. "Take these off, lay on your back?"

"You too," Geralt frowned, suddenly nervous, or at least the witcher equivalent of it. He didn't want to be the only one naked. Jaskier shot him a quick smile and squirmed out of breeches and smallclothes without a murmur of protest, and after just a second to examine the rest of him Geralt dragged off the last of his own clothes.

Jaskier raised his eyes to the ceiling with a whine. "Sweet Melitele give me strength, I can't believe you're going to let me fuck you."

"I won't if you don't _hurry up_!" _Or I'll back out and then I don't know what'll happen_ , was his very quiet addition, but at least Jaskier seemed to get the message, nudging Geralt's legs apart and settling himself on his knees between them.

His cock, previously very interested in the proceedings, had flagged a little with his nerves, but Jaskier wrapped his ever-willing mouth around it and set to, licking and sucking with avarice. He pulled off for a second, just long enough to say hoarsely, "Tell me to stop and I will, but otherwise I'm just going to go for it. Okay?"

Geralt grunted agreement and let his head fall back down, ignoring the sound of a cork leaving a vial, ignoring the slick wet sound of Jaskier rubbing his fingers together to spread the oil, and then trying and failing to ignore a warm hand easing his legs a little further apart.

He could feel his face pinking at the shame of it, of having his legs spread wide and the bard's clever hand tucked between his buttocks, and prepared himself to hate it.

He expected a prod directly at his entrance, but instead an oiled hand slid from the base of his cock where Jaskier's mouth still lapped eagerly, firmly over his taint, over that tight knot and then further back in a slow smooth stroke, and then forwards again, a steady sweeping move that felt almost hypnotic, the span narrowing each time until it was just the smallest movement back and forth over his hole and his breath was catching with almost pleasant anticipation. Then, when there was barely any movement at all it picked back up again, nudging very lightly at his entrance, dipping and sliding out again, barely anything, but enough that he could feel it tugging at the rim, easing him open a little more each time.

"Jaskier," he bit out, and was that him? That rough broken whine?

Blue eyes met his. "Want me to stop?"

Geralt shook his head.

"More, then?"

He couldn't say it. Couldn't bring himself to nod. But Jaskier - _clever_ Jaskier, _handsome_ Jaskier - must have read it plain as day on his traitorous face, because he eased his finger inside, slick with oil, easy as anything, certainly far smoother than it had ever been with Geralt's finger and Jaskier's arse, though he felt himself clench around the intrusion.

" _Oh_ ," he said, eyes wide as he stared at the ceiling, and it was that not-him voice again, that urgent breathy sound. He knows Jaskier's hands as well as he knows his own and there was no way Jaskier's finger was that big before it was in that most intimate of places, but when he looked down there was nothing but Jaskier's mouth on his cock and the curl of three fingers and a thumb, and it was just that other finger that was _inside him_.

"Fuck."

Jaskier's face twisted in a wicked grin. "You like that?"  
Geralt grunted and closed his eyes again. Jaskier twisted his finger and he had to bite his lip at the delicious intensity. He's never been vocal, in bed or out, but -

"Ah! Fuck!"

His hips bucked without him being at all involved in the process; his face burned even redder as his cock jerked against his firm belly at the beautiful electric shock that ran tendrils from his arse to his cock, straight up his spine and down to his toes, all at once.

He caught a glimpse of Jaskier's teeth as he grinned wide, and then had to cover his face with an arm as Jaskier crooked his finger again and again.

"Fuck, yes, fuck, fuck, _fuck-_ " He couldn't seem to stop himself from cursing over and over, any more than he could stop his hips twitching and bucking into that white-edged pleasure. The pressure built as Jaskier stroked and curled, and then there was a hand on his cock and he was suddenly coming so hard he couldn't _breathe_.

*

When the darkness lifted there was a stickiness on his belly and Jaskier lay curled against his side, one arm flung over his chest. When he turned to look at his bedmate, Jaskier lifted his head and gave him a crooked smile, sly and smug and sweet. "Hi."

"Hi," he croaked. His throat was sore, his mouth dry.

"Okay?"

He swallowed, throat clicking, and reached out for a waterskin left carelessly near the bed to take a deep gulp before speaking. "It's always like that?"

Jaskier chuffed out a laugh. "That was just one finger. It's even better with a cock."

Geralt looked down, past the soft muscle of Jaskier's arm, and he could see him still half hard against his hip.

"I could, uh. I could go again. If you wanted to try... that."

Jaskier blinked, face carefully blank, but Geralt heard his heart jump. "I'm fine, we don't have to. You don't have to."

He offered a smile, lopsided and sleepy. "I want to."

There was a long wait and then Jaskier said, in a strangled voice, "Yes. Please."

Geralt hummed, and let Jaskier turn him onto his front, spreading his legs a little, though his face burned at quite how vulnerable he was making himself.

Jaskier's heavy breaths behind him were warm, even on his heated skin. He jumped at the feel of a hand on his arse, and Jaskier whispered an apology. The touch was reassuringly heavy, no light brush against his skin that might tickle, and it eased his arse apart.

A slick finger pressed carefully against him, sinking back inside, not as tight as before. He knew this time the pleasure it could bring, and it was easier not to tense against it. A second finger was more of that alien feeling, but Jaskier's hand was gentle against his back, soothing him, and then there was that lightning feeling again and he cursed into his pillowed arms.

"Alright?"

"Mm, yes."

Jaskier laughed at him, not unkindly; Geralt's voice was absolutely ruined, low and rusty.

The fingers left him and he bucked a little, chasing the feeling, and then forced himself to still. It was embarrassing to be so needy, even with Jaskier - _especially_ with Jaskier.

Then there was something at his entrance, huge and blunt, and he tensed, feeling his shoulders rise up.

"Hey, it's okay, we can stop, you don't have to." Jaskier's voice crooned in his ear, and he shook his head, stubborn.

"I want to."

He nudged back, shifting his hips just so, and then the pressure at his entrance grew until suddenly, with a little grunt, Jaskier's cock was inside him.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, oh, oh-"

He could feel Jaskier shaking above him, trembling.

"Okay?"

He nodded, and then Jaskier's trembling was his own trembling as that impossible stretch grew and grew, tight and hot and so, so good.

When Jaskier's weight finally rested on him, splayed across his back, he let out a heavy gasp, half a sob. Jaskier flinched, but Geralt grabbed for his hand, twining their fingers together, though the muscles in his back required to lift his head and free his arm were apparently very much connected to his arse. "It's good, it's good, just -" Just a lot, the unexpected physicality of it, and the surge of emotions at the trust he's placed in the man above him, behind him, _in him_.

He squeezed too tight, breathing through the too-much ache of it, and eventually it eased enough for him to turn his head and speak, though he kept his eyes steadfastly on the jut of his knuckles where his fingers angled towards the sheets. "Can you - earlier, you touched -"

Jaskier kissed his shoulder. "Want me to try and find your prostate?"

He nodded sharply, too embarrassed to speak, and then Jaskier rocked his hips and he suddenly couldn't gather the brainpower required to form words even if he wanted to.

Instead all he could manage was little bitten-off noises into the pillow as Jaskier eased out and back in again, impossibly slow, impossibly thick and hot, impossibly good.

Jaskier's breath was hot against him, his weight a reassuring anchor holding him steady even as the relentless pleasure curled against his spine every time Jaskier's cock rubbed so slowly against that perfect, perfect spot.

He moaned, head buried in his arm, and Jaskier's voice echoed his, louder as always.

"Fuck, Geralt, you sweet glorious man, you feel so good, you're perfect. Oh fuck, oh you're so tight, so hot, oh, _Geralt_ -" and his hips stuttered harder, and then Geralt felt a flood of heat and he was suddenly aware that _Jaskier's come was in him_ and the bard was still coming, and then there was a hand sneaking under his hips and stroking his cock, and yes he might already have come harder today than he ever had but that wasn't enough to stop him coming a second time with Jaskier's cock in his arse and Jaskier's spend deep inside and Jaskier's familiar weight above him and Jaskier Jaskier _Jaskier_.

*-*-*-*-*

From his scrunched up perch on the chair, Jaskier watched Geralt sleep, heart aching and lip bitten raw to keep from crying. He'd not enjoyed fucking so much in months, being able to give that to his witcher, kiss him like his life depended on it and then take him so slowly he thought the stars might burn out around them before it ended.

Geralt had been so good, so kind to offer that when it wasn't what he wanted. But now it was over.

He could kick himself; of course once would never be enough, not now he'd finally had a taste of what he could have if he was anything other than a quick lay, and that was if Geralt didn't get rid of him altogether.

Maybe if he was more muscled, or if he didn't talk quite so damn much, Geralt's complained often enough... but no. He is what he is, just a simple, cowardly - _weak_ \- bard, with nothing to offer but clever fingers and a talented mouth. He should have been grateful for anything at all, and instead his neediness had ruined everything.

*-*-*-*-*

This time when Geralt woke it was to a bone deep satisfaction and a clean coolness between his legs, and no bard draped across him.

He didn't jerk upright or cast fruitlessly about the bed, but instead calmed his suddenly pounding heart and sent his senses about the room. To his relief he heard the familiar thud of Jaskier's heart and his familiar sex and satisfaction post-fuck scent. No fear, but not as much warm happiness as he might have hoped.

"Come back to bed," he growled, twisting to see Jaskier curled up on a chair, face inscrutable where his chin rested on his knees but a telltale red swell to his lip. Dressed, which was unexpected.

Oh, Geralt thought. Of course. Who would want to lie with a witcher if he wasn't the big strong monster hunter everyone thought he was. He tried to keep his distress from his expression, determined to at least not show this weakness too.

Jaskier unfolded under Geralt's gaze, feet dropping to the floor, though his shoulders were still hunched. "Are you sure?"

Sleep addled and unexpectedly miserable, Geralt blinked at him. Jaskier looked away as he carried on, clearly resolved to see his script through. "I appreciate that you... did that for me. But I know it's not your thing. I get it. I'm sorry I asked you for it, I won't ask again."

Once again, the bard had his head spinning. "What?"

"I'm saying - it's fine. You'll top, I'll bottom. That's it. We don't even have to kiss if you don't want." His face was carefully blank but Geralt could hear the lie in the distressed gallop of his heart.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. He wasn't quite sure why, but it seemed the thing to say.

Jaskier crumpled in on himself even further. It was a wonder such a tall man could look so small. "Right, then. I'll, ah. I'll go. I'll sleep in your room and you stay here?"

"Stay? Please?" Weak, he's made you weak, this has all been a mistake - but the hope in Jaskier's face at his words was enough for him to want to embrace his weakness.

But the flare of hope faded all too quickly into misery. "I can't. I can't lie there with you and know you'll cast me away, lie there and know it's going to be the last time we kiss, the last time you let me run my fingers along your chest, the last time I can be gentle with you when that's all I want to do, I can't, I'm _sorry_." Jaskier's voice cracked and he looked away.

Oh.

Fuck.

He's - fuck, he's been so _stupid_.

"Fuck."

Geralt hauled himself out of bed, striding naked across the room to stand in front of Jaskier's miserable form and grab his shoulders, silver-scarred fingers tight against the silk chemise. For once he would speak, plain and clear.

"It was good. I want to do it again." Well, probably, but Jaskier's great shining eyes made him want to remove any chance of doubt. "Get back in bed so we can fucking cuddle. Got it?"

"You didn't hate it?" The hope in his eyes was awful, and Geralt could only ache with guilt that he might have been the cause of such distress.

"No."

"You don't hate... me?"

Geralt let go to smack him lightly on the arm at his foolishness, then regained his grip. "No."

Jaskier's eyes searched his, flickering uncertainly from one side to the other, and then a great smile spread across his face, warm and bright as a sunrise. "You liked it and you still like me and you might maybe do it again?"

" _Yes_ , bard. All of that."

"Oh." Jaskier was practically vibrating under his palms, and after a long minute where his eyes filled, terrifyingly, with tears, he burst from his chair and leapt open armed at Geralt, who stumbled back under the fresh assault.

Grumbling a little, Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier's back, hoiking him up until strong legs clamped obediently around his waist, even as a damp face buried itself in his neck.

Carrying Jaskier back to bed - no mean feat even for a witcher, the bard being deceptively heavy - he seated himself carefully, running one hand through Jaskier's tousled hair and the other one holding him close while he shuddered and wept. "Sorry," Jaskier gasped out between waves, "Bit of an overreaction." Geralt secretly agreed, but Jaskier added, "I've just been thinking about this for so _long_ ," and burst into fresh sobs.

At long last, the flood of tears slowed to a trickle and finally ceased. Jaskier leant back to wipe his face with a silk sleeve, and then when that was too saturated to do him any good shifted out of Geralt's arms to track down a handkerchief. Geralt let him go, a little bewildered, and once his face was dry Jaskier turned around to smile at him, though it was pale and wan. "Oof. Sorry. Again."

As Geralt opened his arms to invite Jaskier back, he was suddenly struck by the image of Eskel, staring at him across the training grounds after a bout, mouth twisted in amusement as he asked, "Again? High stakes?"

Jaskier settled in his lap and the image vanished, tear streaked red eyes replacing witcher yellow. Easing the chemise over Jaskier's head and squeezing him tight against his own bare chest, Geralt ghosted his lips over Jaskier's forehead. It must have been terrifying for Eskel to ask that, and how much more terrifying would it have been for Jaskier to proposition a witcher, a monster who could snap him in half without a thought. "You're not weak," he whispered into the mussed hair. "You're strong. Very strong."

"And good with my hands," Jaskier ventured, in a wobbly voice.

"Yes, and good with your hands."

"And my-"

"And your mouth." He slapped a hand over the aforementioned mouth before it could open again. " _And_ your cock."

Jaskier's eyes shone warm with mirth above the curve of Geralt's hand, and he pulled it away to knuckle away a last tear streak staining Jaskier's cheek and neaten the bard's hair into some semblance of its usual style. "There," he said gruffly. "All better."

"All better," Jaskier echoed softly, and curled even closer.

It wasn't _all_ better, but it was a little better than it had been, and more importantly there was hope for tomorrow.


End file.
